


give me a reason

by perissologist



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Teen Titans (Comics)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-03-09 19:09:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18923245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perissologist/pseuds/perissologist
Summary: “What about this? Me?” His voice drops, low, but even now there’s the bite underneath, the bitter tinge of resentment that comes from already anticipating a rejection. It tips Slade off to the fact that Dick is in far worse shape than he assumed—the man he knows, the one he’s spent the better part of the past decade with in an equally infuriating and invigorating dance, would never be so desperate. Or so clumsy. “I’m asking you to. Is that a good enough reason?”





	1. part i: losing

Slade knows there’s someone in his house before he even steps foot inside the door. Whoever it is has done a good job of covering their tracks, relocking the door from the outside and re-engaging the security system, but Slade has just come off a nonstop shitshow in the Panama jungle, and the traces of dirt around the front door and faint wire marks on the deadbolt are as good as a blaring alarm to his overhyped brain. He leaves most of his gear in the rose bushes and takes only his bow knife. It’s all he’ll need: The intruder made a mistake coming after him on his own turf.

He circles around to the back of the house and enters through the study window. Whoever it is will most likely be watching both the front and the back entrances, waiting for the right opportunity to show themselves. If it were him, he’d wait on the stairs behind the bannister: Clear visuals on the entire lower floor, and the speed, stealth, and force advantages of a drop-down attack. If they’re smart, there will be at least three of them, one to execute the initial attack and two on the ground to close in on the sides. And then there’ll be the second string outside, and perhaps a long-distance backup, watching through the windows…  

Slade paces into the hallway, keeping to the shadows along one wall. The jungle was full of noise, reeking with life; it was nearly impossible to distinguish the sounds of an enemy moving in under the screeching of the birds and the constant hum of the cicadas. But a house is quiet, preserving each sound like a bug in amber, and the traces that remain of the adrenaline that kept Slade on constant alert throughout his mission is more than enough for him to pick up the slightest rhythm of heavy breathing, and the distinct scents of lime verbena, chalk, and sweat.

Slade sighs, straightens, and flicks on the lights. “In polite society, one calls ahead.”

Light floods the open floor plan. Dick Grayson sits at Slade’s kitchen island, Slade’s good whiskey and a half-filled glass in front of him. He’s in his suit, but the mask is off. He doesn’t look up, just lifts the glass and drains it wholesale. “How’d you know it was me?”

Slade weighs the truth on his tongue. He hates to give anything away, but the tension in Dick’s shoulders and the way he refuses to meet Slade’s gaze has Slade shifting back, finding his tactical footing again. Whatever Dick is here for, it’s not a social call: He’s off-kilter tonight, uneasy. If offering him a tidbit gets him to relax enough to let down his guard, Slade considers it a fair price. “The detergent powder you rub on your suit between washes.” He moves into the kitchen, bow knife a steadying weight in his hand; Dick doesn’t react, barely glances at the weapon. “You’ve been using it since your days with the Titans. Bat employee perks no longer include nightly free laundry service?”

Dick’s eyes do flick to him then, sharp and annoyed, and Slade takes it as a good sign that he can still get a reaction. He watches as Dick rolls back his shoulders, like Slade’s needling is causing him physical wear. “You ever get tired of being such an asshole?”

“I don’t know, little bird.” Slade comes to a halt on the opposite side of the island and reaches for the whiskey. He takes Dick’s emptied glass and pours a drink for himself. “Do you ever get tired of it?”

Dick has come to him only three times before, and all in the past year. The first time, he was pissed—not at Slade, surprisingly. At his Freudian funhouse of a mentor/boss, at the world for never, ever failing to light itself on fire, and most of all at himself, for failing to live up to standards that not even Slade, with significantly more enhancements and significantly less self-imposed restrictions, could hope to meet. The second time, a month later, he was nervous, but honest, clear-headed and grounded and sure of what he wanted. The third time, he was loose, quick, blue eyes and easy charm. Appreciative of the pragmatic, non-judgemental nature of the deal that they had struck, the no-strings-attached _je ne sais quoi_ of it all.

Judging by the way Dick’s lip curls back to bare his teeth, Slade’s in for another rendition of the “pissed” flavor of events. The thought of it makes an appreciative hum rumble in the back of his throat. He downs the whiskey before sliding the glass back across the island, leaning his elbows on the countertop to drive home his point. Dick just glares up at him like a sullen teenager, pupils dilated in the soft glow of the “warm” setting of Slade’s overhead lighting. “Did you break into my safehouse just for a drink? Or is there something else you want?”

Dick is a Rubik’s cube of emotions and motivations; he always has been, since Slade first met him as the scrappy, infuriating kid leading a team of superpowered brats all older and more powerful than he was. He’s dedicated and thorough, and likes to play the grounded, stabilizing presence with the younger members of the Bat’s ridiculous brood; but he’s also in command of a keen sense of spatial awareness, an uncanny social intelligence, and a set of instincts that nearly outstrips his tactical training. He has a sense of morality even more ironbound than the Bat’s, but he’s far more aware of his own sharp edges, and far more efficient at utilizing them. In theory, he’s against Slade, everything he does and everything he stands for. In practice…

In practice, Dick has only come to him three times. But Slade has gone to him far more.

Dick’s hand darts out, his fingers closing around Slade’s wrist. Without his own armor, he can feel the rough texture of Dick’s gloves against his pulse, the pressure of Dick holding on just a little too tight. Slade grins, sets down his knife, and reaches for the lightswitch on the wall behind him. It was a long, long two weeks in the jungle. He’s had enough of fumbling around in the dark; he wants to see everything Dick has to offer him in all its glory.

But when he dials the lights to full brightness, Dick flinches, more than just the mild squint of adjusting after waiting for Slade in the dark. He drops Slade’s wrist and looks away, pushing a hand through his already disheveled hair. “There is,” he says, gruff. None of that irritating Grayson charm, and none of that meaningful provocativeness, either. “I need a favor.”

Slade quirks a brow. “I think we can stop calling them favors at this point.”

He expects Dick to roll his eyes in annoyance, or scowl in reproach; but Dick just shakes his head, fierce, as if he’s genuinely angry. “No,” he snaps, voice hard. “I’m not here for that. I need—I need an _actual_ favor.”

There’s a dangerous tension in Dick’s voice, edging on desperation. Slade has his guard up before he even realizes it. What’s frustrating is the involuntary concern that accompanies it. “Alright,” he says. He straightens, taking himself out of Dick’s space, giving him room to breathe. “What are you looking for?”

“Morten Blacklow.” Dick’s gaze flicks towards him, wary under the hair that has grown just slightly too long over his eyes. “You know him?”

Morten “The Merchant” Blacklow—one of the most infamous arms dealers in the eastern hemisphere. Multibillionaire mastermind of a two-continent-large network of manufacturers, smugglers, and informants; single-handedly responsible for arming over half the cartels fighting drug wars in South America. “Yes,” Slade says, measured. “I know him.”

Dick’s eyes sharpen, accusatory. “You _worked_ for him.”

Usually, it’s not difficult to know what to tell and what to hide from Dick when it comes to Slade’s line of work. Slade has never made apologies for who he is, and Dick knew him as an enemy first. But there are still things Slade keeps from the kid, things he knows would damage Dick if was forced to swallow them. Morten Blacklow has always been squarely on that list.

“I’ve done jobs for him,” he agrees, neutral. “He pays well.”

Slade expects Dick to condemn him, even to go as far as to attack him, if Blacklow is the reason the kid seems so on edge. He doesn’t expect Dick to nod, once, as if satisfied. “Good. Then you can tell me where to find him.”

Slade watches Dick for a moment, cataloguing the tightness in his frame, the notable lack of his usual acrobat’s graceful ease. Dick takes his cases on with junkie-like fervor, internalizes them until they lodge too deep to be pulled out without any damage. Slade sometimes thinks the kid is so desperate to help the helpless that when he can’t, he compensates by taking on their hurt instead. “Sorry, kid,” he says. “We don’t exactly keep track of each other on Find My Friends. We’re only in contact when I’m working a contract for him.”

“So take one on,” Dick says, impatient. “He’s an international arms dealer, I’m sure he always needs someone dead. When he contacts you to give you the details, request to speak to him directly. If you give me enough time, I can get past the firewalls and triangulate his location from the signal.”

Slade raises an eyebrow. He is beginning to get the sense that the situation is fundamentally miswired in Dick’s head. “Kid,” he starts, slowly. “I’m not going to do that.”

“Why not?”

“You’re suggesting I exploit my reputation as a contractor to expose a man who has only ever honored his end of our business agreements. There’s not much in the way of honor among assassins, but even in our circles, an unprovoked double-cross is frowned upon.”

“He’s an _arms dealer_ ,” Dick retorts, far too sharp for someone like him, who knows how this works. Slade narrows his eyes at him.

“Yes,” he says. “And I’m a mercenary.”

Dick just stares at him for a moment, mouth twisted—and that’s when Slade finally sees that despite the lights having gone on several minutes ago, Dick’s pupils are still dilated, the canary blue of his irises nearly swallowed whole. After that, he picks up on everything else in rapid succession: The waxy pallor of Dick’s olive skin, the thin layer of sweat on his upper lip, the way the skin at the corner of his eyes is just so slightly pinched. _He’s in pain_ , the thought occurs to Slade. Before he knows it, he’s seized Dick’s chin in his fingers, pulling his face closer to the light. “Grayson. What have you been dosed with?”

Dick flinches back, but the way he fumbles off the stool and only barely catches himself from tripping tells Slade everything he needs to know. “Nothing you need to worry about.” He starts making his way around the island. “I’ll be on my way.”

“ _Dick_.” Slade catches Dick by the arm, tight. He’s annoyed with himself: Grayson has been so obviously off since the moment they first spoke. He should have realized the kid had been hit by something. “You won’t last a day going after Blacklow like this. Hell, I’d be impressed if you made it off my front porch. Is it a drug or a toxin? What’s the half-life in the bloodstream?”

Dick attempts to shake Slade off, but even without whatever is in his system messing him up, he can’t compete in brute strength against Slade’s serum enhancements. “If you’re not going to help me find Blacklow,” he grinds out, “then it’s not your concern. Let _go_ of me.”

“Stop acting like a child, Grayson. You know how this works. If I use my network to find Blacklow and double-cross him, I’m done as a contractor. No client will ever hire me again—not to mention the targets this would put on my back. If you really want this from me, you need to give me a better reason to do it, or something I can use to leverage—”

Dick gives a final yank and frees himself from Slade’s grip. He meets Slade’s gaze with blazing eyes, more angry than Slade has seen him since they first reached their strange truce. “A _better reason?_ You want me to give you a better reason? The fact that Blacklow goes out of his way to stoke wars between the cartels so he can rack up business isn’t enough of a reason? The fact that he’s directly contributed to thousands of deaths isn’t enough of a reason? The fact that his men kill and rape their way through every city he does business in because they know that working for their boss makes untouchable? Those aren’t good enough reasons for you?”

Slade’s lips curl “I think you have me confused with the other possessive, violent old man in your life, kid,” he grits out. “I’m not in the business of taking down bad men. That particular quest would be a little too self-sacrificial for my tastes.”

Dick bares his teeth, hackles up, the way they always are whenever Slade pokes the particular bear that the multitude of issues the kid has when it comes to the Bat. Then, abruptly, he steps forward, armored chest bumping against Slade’s, close enough that Slade can feel the unnatural heat coming off his skin. “What about this? Me?” His voice drops, low, but even now there’s the bite underneath, the bitter tinge of resentment that comes from already anticipating a rejection. It tips Slade off to the fact that Dick is in far worse shape than he assumed—the man he knows, the one he’s spent the better part of the past decade with in an equally infuriating and invigorating dance, would never be so desperate. Or so clumsy. “ _I’m_ asking you to. Is that a good enough reason?”

Slade _knows_ it’s whatever toxic shit is in the kid’s system talking, but he can’t keep the sneer out of his voice. He never liked being backed into a corner. “I think you’ve overestimated your charms here, Grayson.”

Dick steps back. “Right.” For a moment, the haze seems to lift, and Slade catches a glimpse of something real underneath—something vulnerable and exhausted, made unsteady by desperation. He’s seen this side of Dick before, when he’s still going after too many losses and no time to breathe, trying to save everybody but himself. If there’s one person with the capability to destroy Dick Grayson, it has always been himself. “That’s what I thought.”

He brushes past Slade. Slade lets him: Whatever is broken inside Dick right now is beyond Slade’s capability to fix. He’s no one’s goddamn therapist; he’s always been too broken himself for that.

Behind him, he hears Dick’s footsteps slow. For a moment, Slade thinks he’ll double back for round two; but when he speaks, it’s without the wild edge of the drugs, something true breaking through. “This isn’t going to work. You and me. I see that now. But you always knew, didn’t you?”

Slade closes his eyes and sees Dick’s hair, as fine and dark as feathers, sprawled against Slade’s pillow; the mirthful blue slivers of his half-lidded eyes, looking up at Slade in the moonlight of a dark room. He exhales, a single, measured breath. “I did.”

A moment later, the front door opens, then closes. Slade pours himself a drink.

—-

Nightwing vanishes off the streets of Bludhaven, there one night and nowhere to be found the next—or the one after that, or the one after that. He leaves his informants hanging, his cases open, his patrols unattended. On the fourth night of his absence, Slade spots the boy who was once the third Robin and the girl bat with the blond hair scampering over the rooftops, apparently on backup duty. On the fifth night, the mouthy asshole in a red helmet and the silent daughter of David Cain are seen talking with a bunch of low-level street peddlers near the docks.

On the sixth night, Slade ducks through the fire escape window of his safehouse in downtown Bludhaven to find his least favorite knight in shining Kevlar waiting for him on his designer rug. Slade straightens and tilts his head at Wayne, fully aware that being unable to read Slade’s expression behind the mask drives the Bat crazy. “That rug is a Gianfranco Ferre, you know.”

“What did you do to him, Wilson?”

“You’ll have to be more specific; I do a lot of things to a lot of people.”

Wayne snarls. The black leather bat costume should be ridiculous, but Slade can see how it can be intimidating. “Nightwing. He’s been unreachable since the fourteenth. Before that, his last known contact was you.”

“And why would you assume I had anything to do with his absence?”

“You and Nightwing have been enemies for years,” Wayne snaps, and, well, that’s interesting. _So Daddy doesn’t know._ “You’ve abducted him before.”

“Yes, well. The past is not the present, is it, Batman?” Slade spreads his hands, palms up, a gesture of supplication. “I don’t have him, and I don’t know where he is. If he is missing, I had nothing to do with it.”

Wayne’s eyes narrow, but he’s just as good at reading people as Dick has always claimed, because he doesn’t make any further accusations. Instead, he asks, almost succeeding at the neutral tone he’s trying so hard to push: “And your meeting on the fourteenth? Do you deny that too?”

Slade considers him for a moment. He knows that if Dick were here, he’d shoot Slade a warning glance, an order—or perhaps a plea—to hold his silence. But Dick isn’t here. So Slade says, instead, not bothering to exclude the lecherous tone, “I don’t deny it. But some things are best kept private, don’t you agree?”

Wayne doesn’t so much as twitch, but the subsequent shift in the atmosphere of the room is so palpable Slade can feel it prickle against his skin. He’s gotten so comfortable calling upon the little bird that he almost forgot the danger of the hand it always flies back to. “I advise caution for you, Wilson,” Wayne says, the low, unhurried rumble of a monster lurking just beyond sight in the dark. “I know you’re used to the upper hand. But this is not your territory. And you are walking a very, _very_ thin line.”

Slade smiles, tight, and steps aside. He waves to the open window. “I trust you can see yourself out.”

He waits until Wayne brushes past him and vanishes into the night, far more agile than he should be in that stupidly effective costume, before he turns and makes his way into the bedroom, to the safe hidden behind the genuine Vermeer hung over the headboard. As he unloads a series of his most brutal weapons from within and packs them methodically onto his suit, he thinks about how Dick always loved that Vermeer. Slade can’t count the number of times he’s caught the kid staring at it when he couldn’t sleep, eyes hazy and half-lidded, mind somewhere else.  

He leaves through the same window and locks it behind him. Bludhaven is cool and dark laid out before him, full of unknowns. Slade takes a moment to fill his lungs with the clean, crisp air. Then he powers on the computer in his gauntlet and enters the ascending series of codes that lets him into the network connecting the deadliest men and women in the world to those seeking their services. It doesn’t take long to find a contract listed for three million dollars by The Merchant, or to claim it. He knows it won’t take long, either, for Blacklow to accept; after all, they have history together.

Slade pulls his mask down over his face and sets off into the night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was meant to be a oneshot but, i mean, i can't NOT write slade's rescue, right?? 
> 
> i'm not actually sure what this is. an exploration of dick from slade's pov? an exploration of the complications of a hero dating a mercenary, from slade's pov? an excuse for me to write about dick while pretending i'm not writing about dick? all of the above??


	2. part ii: finding

It’s not difficult to find Dick’s case files once Slade makes it past his apartment’s security system. For someone who has lived the vigilante lifestyle since the tender age of nine, the kid is surprisingly terrible at keeping it secret. There’s a pair of escrima sticks shoved down the back of the couch cushions, a uniform barely hidden by a stack of hoodies in the drawer, and the aforementioned case files, spread out between two cardboard filing boxes underneath the bed.

Slade pulls out the boxes, lays their contents out across the bed, and begins to read. Dick’s domestic habits may be a mess, but his recordkeeping is flawless: Within an hour, Slade knows everything. Having conquered the South American market, Blacklow set his sights on North America; specifically, Bludhaven and her perpetual hotbed of criminal tensions, and all the ways he could profit from it. The files contain air traffic schedules, wire transfers, even voice recordings from bugged phone calls that all point to one, inevitable conclusion: Morten Blacklow came to Bludhaven to spark a gang war—one that he would then no doubt proceed to supply with his own merchandise.

The evidence that Dick has gathered would be enough to convince anyone with two brain cells of Blacklow’s intentions, but Slade recognizes instantly why he didn’t involve the police, or even the feds: The stolen snapshots of Blacklow’s pay rosters are riddled with high-ranking members of law enforcement, from Bludhaven’s own boys in blue all the way up to the DEA and FBI. It makes the last file in Dick’s collection make all the more sense: Profiles of the leaders of Bludhaven’s three biggest gangs, incentives that might draw them all to one meeting, and a neutral location uptown, placed safely out of the range of all three territories. It was clear that Dick decided if he couldn’t rely on the authorities to bring Blacklow in, he would go straight to the source and convince the gang leadership themselves that someone was trying to bait them.

But something must have gone wrong, because Slade recognizes one of the names among the profiles: Santino Cezana, the son of Nero Cezana and heir to the Cezana crime family, recently found trussed up on the beach of Gotham Bay with his throat slit. The murder was front and center of every network news broadcast a week ago, and they all said the same thing: A cut throat with the victim’s hands tied behind his back has been a hallmark of the Los Diamantes cartel for decades.

The edition of the _Bludhaven Tribune_ breaking the news of Cezana’s death is shoved in the back of Dick’s file, with three words written in angry red Sharpie above the fold: _Where is Blacklow??_? It’s not difficult to guess what must have happened next: Blacklow would have been smart enough to disappear for a while after arranging Cezana’s murder, and without proof that he was in Bludhaven—without proof, perhaps, that he even existed at all—any agreements that Dick might have been able to extract from the gang leaders to keep the peace would have vanished right with him. And so Bludhaven finds herself on the brink of a war with the potential to catch the entire city in its crosshairs, with no one but an overworked twenty-six-year-old who has never learned how to stop taking things personally to save her from the bloodbath.

Slade finds no mention of Blacklow’s favorite poison to use against his enemies, which means that, whatever Dick was hit with, he didn’t see it coming. The thought makes the animal in Slade’s chest pace and snarl. Dick is one stupidly stubborn vigilante against a man with an entire empire at his command; the only advantage he has is the hyper-preparedness he’s had drilled into him since childhood. If he wasn’t ready for whatever it was Blacklow dosed him with…

The file in Slade’s hand crumples in his fist. He tosses it down onto the bed and stabs at his brace computer. The message waiting for him brings a grim smile to his face: First contact from The Merchant, containing a set of coordinates and a time for them to meet. Slade slips his mask back on and steps toward the window. It’s time to hunt.

—-

Blacklow’s North American base of operations is a multi-story concrete complex deep in the industrial sector of western Bludhaven, an abandoned shipping facility turned heavily fortified weapons depot. Blacklow himself seems to have adapted well to his new, more northern surroundings: He greets Slade in a finely tailored peacoat and polished leather brogues, looking more like a Wall Street businessman than the most prolific arms dealer in the eastern hemisphere.

“Mr. Wilson.” Blacklow beckons Slade forward. They take seats across from each other at a table in the middle of the floor. “It’s been too long. I can’t tell you how thrilled I was when you accepted my contract.”

“You flatter me, Morten.” _Two men on the front entrance, two on the back; four on the balcony._ “You have a job for me?”

“Indeed.” Blacklow withdraws a tablet from the inside of his coat and pushes it across the table. “A fairly standard contract, in my opinion, but I need it done sooner rather than later.”

Slade recognizes the face and its accompanying name on the tablet’s display instantly: Darius Wilcox, South Bludhaven native, and leader of the 308 gang. He looks the same as he did in the CCTV captures Dick collected of him in his case files. Blacklow flashes Slade a perfunctory smile, giving nothing away. “I’m willing to pay extra for expediency.”

Slade draws the tablet closer to him and flicks through it with a gloved finger, silent. After a moment, he tilts his mask back towards Blacklow. “You’ll provide me with a team for backup?”

Blacklow’s brows tick upwards. “You usually prefer to work alone.”

“Usually,” Slade agrees, neutral. “But my intel informs me that you’ve managed to attract some unwanted attention during your time in Bludhaven.”

In an instant, Blacklow’s expression drops. He straightens out of his casual slouch, eyes flinty. “I admit, I’ve come across some…unforeseen obstacles while establishing myself in this city. But rest assured that it’s been handled. I am a professional, first and foremost.”

“Hmm,” Slade hums, just because he knows it’ll get under Blacklow’s skin. He also knows that if he presses now, Blacklow will retreat faster than a struck dog. This is a man who was able to cut down Dick Grayson, who has been going toe to toe with Slade since puberty. He’ll need to bide his time, if he wants to pull this off.

He offers a demure tilt of his head, a display of deference. “I’d still like the extra bodies. If you don’t mind.”

Blacklow’s jaw twitches, but a moment later, the easy, pleasant businessman’s smile is back. “Of course, Mr. Wilson. I trust your judgment.” He shifts in his seat and catches the attention of one of his men milling about the floor. “Kerr. Tell Holsworth to suit up a unit for an assist on a cutdown.” Kerr nods his acknowledgement and bows out through a door in the back. Blacklow turns back to Slade. “It’s good to be working with you again, Mr. Wilson. I hope that this arrangement will be fruitful for us both.”

Slade hopes, for Blacklow’s sake, that Dick is still breathing in a black hole somewhere, instead of chained to cement blocks at the bottom of Gotham Bay. Then, at least, Blacklow’s death will be quick; messy, doubtless, but quick. “Please, Morten,” he says. “The pleasure is all mine.”

—-

It’s not as simple as Slade would have guessed to identify the weakest member of the team Blacklow sent. He supposes it’s a credit to their boss that each of the four men are alert, disciplined, and professional, carrying out Slade’s orders with a brisk efficiency that makes them seem more like soldiers than criminals. But people are easy for Slade; he may not like them, but he understands them perfectly. And it doesn’t take long for him to zero in on Cairns, the quietest member of the little task force Blacklow has supplied him with.

Cairns is a few years younger than the others, and despite being as good with a semiautomatic as any of them, considerably twitchier. He’s pale and scrawny, with dark, beady eyes that have a tendency to flick at least three times over anything in his proximity. Slade can tell that the others don’t like him: It’s in the way Kovinski’s upper lip curls when Cairns talks, or how Roth doesn’t offer Cairns a cigarette like he does to Kovinski and Ortecho.

They convene in one of Blacklow’s storehouses in Bludhaven, where Cairns, Kovinski, and Roth arm themselves with their selection of handguns and semi-automatics. They offer Slade his pick of the product, too, like good hosts offering refreshments to their houseguest. Slade tilts his mask at them and rumbles his amusement. “I appreciate the offer, gentlemen, but I think I’ll stick with the home team. You understand.”

They gather around a meeting table in one of the storehouse’s back rooms, where Slade has laid a map of Bludhaven out under the cold fluorescent lights. “Wilcox is laying low in a 308 stronghold in the Straits,” he announces, using the end of one of his batons to point out the most notorious street in Bludhaven’s crime-infested eastern sector. “He’s a smart man; he knows that after what happened to Cezana’s boy, there’s going to be blood on the streets. I want you to watch the neighborhood, make sure there are no 308 or Diamantes trying to approach. We can’t have anyone looking to strike a strategic alliance when we’re trying to stoke a gang war, can we?”

Kovinski and Roth exchange glances, but it’s Cairns who speaks up. “The boss told us not to let you out of our sight,” he cuts in, snippy. “So where’re you gonna be during this stakeout?”

Slade wishes, sometimes, that he doesn’t wear the mask, just so he can have the pleasure of flashing his teeth. _“_ _I’ll_ be making sure we aren’t interrupted by the less conventional do-gooders that like to lurk around these parts. Or did your boss not tell you about New Jersey’s little pest problem?”

Ortecho grunts. “We know about the…vigilante. The boss already took care of it.”

Slade cocks his head. “Oh? Does ‘taking care of it’ involve a body at the bottom of the bay?”

Roth rolls his eyes. “We’re not stupid. Bird-boy can be used for leverage. The boss has got him stashed. He won’t be bothering us.”

Slade breathes in, then out again. _Good. That’s good._ “And the others? Has your boss accounted for them, too?”

Kovinski’s brows twitch upwards. “‘Others’?”

Slade taps the map again. “Like I said,” he drawls. “You do your part, and I’ll do mine.”

Cairns huffs. “Fine,” he says. “When’s the hit going down?’

Slade nearly smiles. This is almost too easy. “Three-thirty, tomorrow morning.” He claps Cairns on the shoulder, friendly. “You think you can keep it together until then?”

Cairns nods. His hand comes to rest on the butt of the MCX rifle slung over his shoulder. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Good.” Slade gets to his feet. The rest of his strategy unfolds in his head, as clearly as if it was happening before his eyes. It’s amazing how clear his thoughts are when Dick isn’t there to cloud them; when all he needs to think about is the task at hand, the target at the other end of his scope. He tilts a nod to Blacklow’s men. “I’ll see you on the other side, boys. Don’t get yourselves killed.”

—-

Darius Wilcox, of course, is not hunkered down in an inner-city tenement surrounded by a hundred of his men. Darius Wilcox is at his girlfriend’s house in the not-quite-suburbs outside Bludhaven proper, a modest little townhouse with flower boxes in the windows and a basketball hoop in the driveway. Slade has always known that Dick is good, but seeing every detail of Wilcox’s private life laid out in his case files—everything from the times Wilcox leaves for and returns from church on Sundays to his girlfriend’s mother’s maiden name—only drives it further home. Slade’s mouth curls as he flips idly through Dick’s 308 file, waiting on the roof of the hardware store across the street for the lights in the house to go out. _Always more than just a pretty face, aren’t you, kid?_

The house dims around eleven, surprisingly early for a drug lord. Slade enters through the back door, into the kitchen. He makes a little noise: The creak of the door, the tread of heavy boots across a loose floorboard. Then he sits at the table and waits.

A minute later, the barrel of a rifle glints at him from the shadows of the living room. Slade tilts his mask into the moonlight drifting through the windows and waits. A moment later, he hears a sharp intake of breath. “Holy shit.”

Slade tilts his head. “Sit, Mr. Wilcox.”

Wilcox fires, straight into Slade’s chest. The bullet ricochets off his armor and buries itself in the wall over Wilcox’s shoulder. Wilcox exhales and lowers the gun. “Well,” he mutters. “I tried.” He pulls out the chair across from Slade and sits, back ramrod straight. “If I’m going to die today, I don’t want to die like a fucking pussy.”

Slade likes this man. He’s coarse, clearly violent; but there’s a dignity to him, one earned from years of clawing his way to the top, and the hard glint of intelligence in his gaze. “I see my reputation precedes me, Mr. Wilcox.”

“Sure,” Wilcox snorts. He eyes Slade like a gazelle might eye a lion from across the watering hole. “You’re fucking Deathstroke the Terminator, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

Wilcox scowls. “Which means someone sank a lot of money to see me dead.”

“Someone did,” Slade agrees. “But you’re not going to die tonight, Mr. Wilcox.”

Wilcox stares at him. “I’m not?”

“As fate would have it, I want the man paying me to kill you far more than I want his money.” Slade slides a manilla envelope across the table. “So here’s my offer. Inside this envelope are three passports: One for you, one for your girlfriend, and one for your girlfriend’s son. You’re all going to take a vacation to Indonesia on a flight that leaves in three hours at Newark International Airport. My client has no use for you out-of-country; your death is only worth something to him if it takes place in the streets of this city. By the time you return, three weeks from now, I’ll have dealt with him, and you and yours will be safe. However, if you decide not to leave on this flight; or if you call any of your men; or if you try to find out who it is that wants you dead; or if you tell anybody that I was here—I will slit your throat and dump your body so far out in the ocean that no one will ever know what happened to you.” If the mask were off, Slade would smile now. “I only need you out of my way. And there are many ways to accomplish that.”

Wilcox looks from Slade to the envelope and back again. His expression is suspicious, but Slade can already read in his eyes that he’s going to do as he’s told. “What did this guy do that was so bad it’s got Deathstroke the Terminator double-crossing him?”

Slade’s jaw tightens. “Let’s just say he took something that was mine.” He stands. “Your life is in your own hands now, Mr. Wilcox. Don’t let either of us down.”

—-

“You have a rat in your organization.”

At five in the morning, Blacklow’s base is dark, only a skeleton crew of night guards patrolling the perimeter. Slade finds Blacklow alone in his office, as he knew he would; Dick had, after all, recorded everything from the weeks he spent trailing Blacklow. _Obsessive personality,_ Dick wrote, in scrawling shorthand towards the end of Blacklow’s file. _Often works through the night._

Slade pushes a seething edge into his voice, the annoyance of someone who’s had their time wasted. Blacklow looks at up Slade from behind his desk, expression carefully unreadable. “That’s a bold accusation to make, Mr. Wilson.”

“Someone tipped Wilcox off,” Slade growls. “He fled the country an hour ago. And since the only people who knew about the hit were you, me, and the men you sent to help me—”

“Where are they?” Blacklow asks, sharp. “My men?”

“Back to wherever it is they crawl whenever they’re not at your beck and call, I assume.” Slade crosses his arms over his chest. “I have to admit, Morten: This is the first time I’ve had a client sabotage their own request.”

“My men are loyal,” Blacklow retorts. “But more importantly, they’re smart. They know what I’d do to them if any of them betrayed me. The leak didn’t come from me.”

Slade snorts. “Check your organization, Morten. In my experience, money can make dumb even the smartest of men. Then we can discuss whether or not it’s worth my time for me to finish this contract.” He pauses in the door and glances over his shoulder. “If you do find the rat, I suggest you… _chat_ with him before you dispose of him. You might find that you have an infestation.”

Slade leaves with grim satisfaction curling his mouth. _Almost,_ he thinks. It’s been forty-eight hours since Wayne visited him, six days since Dick disappeared. _Almost._

—-

It doesn’t take long for Blacklow to find the wire transfers Slade planted, linking Darius Wilcox’s Bahamian bank account to Garrett Cairns’ Albuquerque, New Mexico one. After that, it’s just a matter of waiting in his safehouse, choosing which of his guns to take as he watches the blip on his computer monitor that is the bug he planted in the seam of Cairns’ jacket.

It only takes two hours after their meeting in Blacklow’s office for the Cairns-dot to start moving rapidly, a testament to the efficacy of the man’s empire. It almost feels a shame to lose an ally who actually knows what he’s doing—but then Slade remembers the drug-blown pupils of Dick’s eyes, and any lingering regret evaporates.

Blacklow’s black site is buried deep in the Appalachian foothills of eastern New York, where the nearest road is thirty miles and half a dozen ravines away. Slade finds it on his sonar scanner before the tracker actually reaches it; by the time the unmarked van rolls up the long, unpaved driveway and the guards at the entrance pull Cairns out of the back, Slade is on his stomach in the underbrush of the nearest high ground, scoping the facility through the eyepiece of his long-range rifle.

Despite the half-dozen guards in the front and the electrified barbed wire surrounding the property, the building itself doesn’t look like anything special, but a second, close-up scan with the sonar reveals the expansive underground level. Slade flicks on the thermal x-ray in his mask and approximates at least a dozen more bodies inside. Some of them are moving freely through the halls—more of Blacklow’s men. But some are separated from the others and stationary, the auras of their body heat gathered close to the ground. There’s one in the farthest corner of the facility, isolated from the others by at least two hallways. Slade watches it for a moment, the still shape curled on the floor. Then he runs a quick check on his guns, takes a measured breath, and begins.

It is easy to kill. No matter what is socially acceptable to believe, no matter what Dick or the Bat or any of the caped crusaders preach, killing is, more often than not, the most efficient and the most effective way to solve any problem. Slade has known this since before he operated as Deathstroke, since before the operation that gave him his enhanced abilities. He knew it as a seventeen-year-old boy tasked with killing enemy combatants by the United States government, and he knows it now, as the most skilled mercenary in the profession. In the end, ethics and morality are only the half-coherent ramblings of a species chasing its own tail. In the end, there is only power, and who has it; there are only necessary ends, and the means to meet them.

Dick never understood this, didn’t even entertain Slade’s attempts to convince him. Whenever their differences in perspective became apparent—on the rare occasions when they were working together and meant to be in agreement, instead of on opposite sides—he’d inevitably shut down with near machine-like efficiency, retreating behind a hard, cool mask of professionalism. “It’s a line I don’t cross, Slade,” he said, once, the only time Slade managed to goad him into engaging. “We’re supposed to be better than the villains and the criminals and the people who hurt innocents for their own gain. If I do it once, what’s to stop me from doing it again? What’s to stop me from doing it all the time?” It used to make Slade scoff; it used to amuse him, how naive the kid was, how he thought his precious morals made him so righteous when all it did was make him weak. _He won’t last,_ Slade remembers thinking, when he first met Robin, the Boy Wonder, leader of the Titans. _He might have won this time, but he’ll destroy himself before he finishes puberty._

Almost a decade later, Slade has watched Dick survive ordeals that would destroy—that _has_ destroyed—people three times more brutal, all without compromising that iron will of belief and determination at the core of everything he does. It’s made him realize that the kid has a heart that could outlast a nuclear bomb. Up against something that strong, the only thing left for Slade to do was sit back and watch how far it would go.

It doesn’t take long to clear the ground floor, find the cargo elevator that leads down to the lower level, and clear that, too. There are only so many men Blacklow can spare for the dead site where he tosses the enemies he doesn’t immediately put a bullet in, and Slade has taken on a lot worse odds before. The tunnel vision of _kill target, locate next, repeat_ only lifts when he drops the last body and no more come rushing at him, leaving him the last one standing in a windowless corridor, the blare of the intruder alarm echoing around him.

Slade’s heartbeat is barely elevated, his breathing deep but even. The body at his feet has a ring of keys clipped to his belt; Slade takes it. Then he continues onward, into the bowels of the facility.

Down where the pipes begin to drip with condensation from the ceiling, there is a security door, of the kind used in prisons to lock off the sectors. Slade finds the electrical panel and reroutes the wires to divert power from the door, and it buzzes open, a classic design flaw from earlier models. Slade steps through into a room that branches off in three halls.

The first two of the halls are lined with old-school, prison-style cells; Slade supposes that even the most prolific arms dealer in the eastern hemisphere can demand so much from a satellite black site. The third hall only has one cell, all the way at the end.

Dick’s costume is filthy after a week in imprisonment and tattered nearly beyond recognition, but it’s still on him, which eases a tightly coiled knot in Slade’s chest that he didn’t know was there. The mask, however, is gone, and despite the dirt coating his face, Dick’s stupidly chiseled, movie-star features are instantly recognizable. Slade hisses out a curse as he finds the right key and unlocks the cell. A moment later, he’s on his knees at Dick’s side, reaching for his shoulder. “Kid. It’s me.”

Instantly, Dick recoils, flinching violently back from Slade’s touch. His eyes snap open, but his gaze is unfocused. “Don’t—”

“Dick.” Slade keeps his voice low and calm. “It’s Slade. We’re getting out of here.”

Dick blinks, once, twice. Slade watches as recognition filters, slowly, into his eyes. “Slade?”

Slade brushes gloved fingers against Dick’s cheek. “Yeah, kid. I’m here. Can you stand?”

Dick’s mouth opens. Slowly, the haze clears from his eyes. “I…yeah. I think so.”

“Come on.” Slade gets a shoulder under Dick’s arm. Dick’s face flushes white with pain, but he just sinks his teeth into his lower lip and lets Slade lever him to his feet. “I can’t imagine Morten will wait too long to flood this place with reinforcements.”

Dick’s legs buckle on his first step, but Slade is there to steady him. His next steps land, and then they’re moving, slowly but steadily, out of the cell. Dick doesn’t stop staring at Slade, like he can’t quite believe his eyes. Slade tolerates it until they make it out of the containment area. Then he slants a glance at Dick, covered by the mask. “You’re looking at me like you’ve never seen me before, kid.”

The corner of Dick’s mouth quirks, the closest thing to a crooked smile that he can manage after a week in an arms dealer’s cell. “What can I say?” he rasps, tired but teasing. “You’re a handsome old man.”

The snort comes out of Slade before he can stop it. He thinks it’s partly driven out by relief. “Still giving tongue after the week you’ve had, Grayson?”

“Always.” Dick presses his face into Slade’s shoulder. His voice drops. “You came for me.”

Slade hauls Dick a little closer to him. “I guess I did.”

Dick doesn’t look at the bodies as Slade carries him out.

—-

Dick checks out again once they make it to the safehouse, the injuries and sleep deprivation catching up to him now that he can finally let his guard down. He’s not unconscious, but not quite awake, either, hovering in that in-between place where he seems to understand what Slade is saying, but won’t—or can’t—respond. Slade guides Dick into the bedroom’s ensuite bathroom and sits him down on the toilet lid. He takes off his own mask so Dick can see his eyes. “I’m going to get you out of your suit now, kid, so I can scope the extent of the damage. Try not to move too much.”

Slade disengages the security on the suit and peels what’s left of it away from Dick’s body. At first glance, he catalogues three broken ribs, a burn mark from a taser on the left side, bruising around the right shoulder from where it’s been dislocated and then popped back in, and a motley of fresh and fading rope marks, all up and down both arms. If Slade’s being honest with himself, he expected worse, but it seems like the biggest hit Dick took was whatever it was Blacklow dosed him with.

Dick is lax as Slade maneuvers him first into the bath, then into a pair of clean boxers and a fresh towel, and barely twitches when Slade bandages his ribs and the burn on his side. It’s only when Slade attempts to put the IV in his arm that he flinches and groans. “Don’t.”

Slade loosens his grip on Dick’s forearm, but only slightly. “It’s a mix to rehydrate you and help your body detox from whatever shit they pumped you full of,” he explains, keeping his voice low, as close to gentle as he can get. “I know you don’t like needles right now, but it’s the most efficient way for you to stop feeling like shit, so work with me, kid.”

Dick grimaces, jaw trembling, but he allows Slade to insert the catheter into his cephalic vein and tape it into place on the back of his hand. Then he lies back against the pillows and closes his eyes. By the tight, controlled way he’s breathing, Slade can tell he’s using everything he has to resist ripping out the needle.

Slade rises and crosses the room to flick off the lights. The last thing he sees before he closes the door behind him is the blue sliver of Dick’s eyes under his half-closed lids, watching him as he leaves.

—-

Slade does not consider himself to be a man with many weaknesses. The average person has dozens, if not hundreds. He knows: He’s made a career out of exploiting them.

For him, it was his family. Adeline, because she always knew him for exactly what he was; because she hated him, and she was right to; because he could never save her, only hurt her. Grant and Rose, because he wanted them to be strong, but only broke them. And Joey, sweet Joey, because he could never see Joey coming.

And then there’s Dick Grayson, Batman’s first protegé, Bruce Wayne’s pride and joy. The one mission Deathstroke the Terminator failed to complete. The one mission he continues to fail, over and over again, every time he holds the slender column of Dick’s neck in his hands and doesn’t snap it.

Dick Grayson is the one detail in his life that Slade has never been able to fully explain. Slade knows he’s not a good man. He’s never regretted taking a contract, but he’s done unforgivable things on the orders of a government he later realized never cared about him, committed war crimes without a moment’s hesitation. He destroyed his own family from the inside out. And Dick—Dick, despite his own flaws and dark spaces, is resiliently, viciously good. Complicated and tempestuous and dangerous and _good_. And for whatever reason, he trusts Slade—trusts Slade not to hurt him in a way that no one, not even his family, ever has before; trusts Slade enough to let him inside that intuitive, complex, hypercompetent brain of his and play around. Strategically, it’s reckless, even stupid. Slade finds it intoxicating.

Dick Grayson doesn’t destabilize him like his family does. He’s not one of Slade’s weaknesses. But he’s there, under Slade’s skin, like a blister he can’t get out. And the trouble is, Slade is beginning to want him there.

He checks on Dick around midnight. His breathing has softened and evened out, telling Slade that he actually managed to fall asleep; but before Slade can retreat, he stirs and lifts his head from the pillow. For a moment, he just blinks, and Slade thinks he’s still under the drugs. Then the barest smile curls his lips. “You gonna just stand there and watch me all night?”

Slade closes the door behind him and crosses the room to stand over Dick’s bed. “I thought you liked being watched, Grayson.”

Dick stretches, shameless, and grins up at him before patting the other side of the mattress. “I see you’re feeling better,” Slade says, dry.

“It’s a wonder what a banana bag and not being pumped full of hallucinogenics will do for you,” Dick says, a little too lightly for Slade to believe him. He winces and lifts the hand without the IV his forehead. “Though I’m not…quite back at one hundred percent yet, I think.”

Slade leans down and traces a hand over the bandaged rows of Dick’s ribs. Dick’s skin is just slightly overwarm under his palm, inflammation doing its job now that his body is no longer in bare survival mode. Dick shivers under his touch and blinks up at him, expectant. “They did some damage to you, little bird.”

Dick’s jaw tightens, but he shrugs, casual. “Not really. Blacklow mostly just wanted me out of the way so he could have his gang war. Then he was probably going to sell me to the highest bidder, or leverage me against Batman for access to Gotham. That wouldn’t have worked if I was dead, so.” He pats the mattress again. “Come on. You’re starting to make _me_ feel awkward.”

Slade rolls his eyes but acquiesces, rounding the bed to slide in on the other side. Dick settles onto his side. He rests the hand with the IV in it on his hip, positioned carefully to avoid tugging on the line. “So,” he says. “I guess I should say thank you.”

Slade hums. “I’d prefer it if you said you owe me, but I suppose a thank you will do.”

It’s Dick’s turn to roll his eyes. “Don’t I always owe you, in some form or another?”

“As long as _you’re_ aware.”

Dick is quiet for a moment, toying with a loose thread on his pillowcase. “I thought you didn’t have a good enough reason to go after Blacklow,” he says, finally, almost questioning.

“I didn’t.” Dick’s face is pale and bruised in the overflow of the streetlamps that half-light the room, cheekbones a little too sharp from a week with what Slade is guessing to be minimal food and water. It makes him look older, wearier. “Then he took you.”

Dick’s gaze flickers towards him. “And that changed things?”

“I don’t like it when other people take what’s mine.”

Slade expects Dick to roll his eyes again, or lob back another quip; but he only frowns, contemplative. “Slade, I…I’m sorry about. What I said. Before, at your house.”

Slade quirks a brow. “Don’t apologize, little bird. You had a goal, and you were seeking the means to fulfill it. I was your best option.”

“I know. I’m not sorry for asking you. But I shouldn’t have…I shouldn’t have blamed you for turning me down.” Dick breathes in, a tell. “I know that’s not the kind of relationship we have.”

Slade reaches out and strokes a thumb, idly, along the line of Dick’s cheek. Dick’s face turns into his hand almost instinctively. “And what kind of relationship is that?”

“The kind where we let our emotions get in the way of the things we have to do.” Dick’s hand comes up between them, his fingers wrapping loosely around Slade’s wrist. He lips touch, barely a press, to Slade’s palm. “When I came to you, I wanted you to be all in. But I know that’s not how you operate. It’s not how I operate, either; after all, I wouldn’t do the same for you. But I just—I don’t know. I guess I was just…” He lets out a clipped laugh. “Desperate.”

Slade considers him for a moment. Then he slings his arm around Dick’s waist and draws him closer. Dick goes without hesitation, curling to tuck his head underneath Slade’s chin. “You wouldn’t want me to be all in, kid,” he rumbles. “After all, we still have our…fundamental disagreement. But you’re not nothing to me. I came for you, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Dick whispers.

“I can’t claim that there’s not going to be a day where I’ll want something more than you. I can’t claim there’s nothing I’d value more than your life. But despite my better judgment, that price keeps getting higher and higher.” Slade runs his fingers through the thick tangle of Dick’s hair, curls still touched with dampness from the bath. “So I guess we still have some time left, don’t we, kid?”

Dick’s breath is warm and steady against Slade’s throat. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I guess we do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so, i feel like i should apologize for 2/3rds of this just being slade hunting, but i got really into it, and also i felt like if i just reunited them without enough buildup, it would've fallen flat? i'm kind of not mad at it though because while part i was a good dick character study, this felt like a good slade character study, and it gave me the chance to move around in his voice, which was fun. i hope i did the gay old man justice
> 
> (there was also gonna be a hundred or two extra words of domestic mush at the end but i cut it out because i felt like this was too good an ending point. and these two aren't really the mushy type. and i like a loose thread or two.) 
> 
> leave a comment or come chat with me at perissologist on tumblr!


End file.
